Gifts of Gold
by 0x0xLOVE and WARx0x0
Summary: “And so I was thinking,” Father Christmas continues, "that perhaps this very year ought to be the year in which you get your gift.”


**Author's Note: **_I know, it's a little early. But what can I say? I had the idea, I wrote it ages ago and wanted to post it right away. And December 1st seems like a good day to do so. Beware, this has only been lightly BETA'd and hasn't been edited hardly at all. It's very raw - but I've read it through several times and my BETA assures me that it's very good so, we'll just take her word for it I suppose :) Merry Christmas! :)_

**Disclaimer: **_I do not own anything involved or concerned with Narnia._

**Gifts of Gold **

_By Fig_

A small figure sits huddled, a blanket draped over his thin shoulders, at the very back of the tall, cathedral like hall. A grand evergreen tree stands in the very centre of the room decorated to the very tips with glass ornaments, candles, ribbons, and the like. At the very top sits a porcelain angel dressed in an ornate gold gown and smiling an angelic smile down to the sullen boy.

The boy's crown is lopsided as he shifts uneasily atop his throne, the last of four in the hall. Behind, to his left, to his right, and all around him are tall windows all tightly shut against the bitter winds of winter. Snow falls swiftly from the heavens on the other side of the glass. The boy jumps slightly, his gaze flying to the ceiling, as a gentle creak is heard from the chamber directly above him. He waits a few moments to see if the creaking is going to continue and then relaxes. As he does so, he happens to slide his gaze out one of the windows, to the snow and the dark sky beyond it. He flinches as though someone had hit him and pulls his eyes away, his face contorted in pain.

He shuts his eyes to block out the unpleasant sight, but does not get the result he had anticipated. For as soon as he has closed his eyes he can hear that laugh – that cruel, high, sinister laugh – and his wrists burn and his head aches and his body feels like lead and he cannot move until he gathers up enough energy to slowly pull his eyes open again. And although the pain and the leadened feeling fades, he feels far more awful than he had before.

He is unbearably tired. He knows he hasn't slept for ages, and that tonight – of all nights – he should be resting. Tomorrow, after all, is one of the biggest holidays in Narnian history and he knows this. Sighing, he rises heavily from his throne and begins to walk towards his chambers. But as he does so, he catches a glimpse of that awful snow – that awful winter – out of one of the windows and freezes, staring. It is so… he cannot place the words. So _beautiful_, he thinks. But no, more than that. _So_ much more than simply that. And as he thinks this a voice begins to echo softly in his head. A beautiful, _terrifying_ voice – the voice that has haunted his nightmares since he first stepped into the snow, first stepped into this world. The voice grows louder and louder still with each awful phrase.

"_No_," he wails, sinking to the floor. The blanket settles over him in a heap as hot, salty tears make a jagged curve down his face. His chest aches as he sobs bitterly, clutching the frayed edges of the blanket, at times biting down on it so as not to be heard from upstairs. He feels sick, awful. He wishes that it would stop. That it would simply let him be, but it does not. Unlike his visions, it will not fade when he opens his eyes. It will _not_.

At that moment, a swift _wooshing_ sort of sound has him standing and whirling about. He knows precisely who it is the moment he turns although he has only seen the tall man once before. He had last seen him, in fact, almost exactly a year prior – give or take a few hours. To his faint surprise, the old man seems almost as surprised to see him as he is to see the old man. The old man, who is of course Father Christmas, must have taken in the boy's tear-streaked and pale face, his trembling hands, and the dark circles sitting beneath dark, despairing eyes for his face quickly rearranges itself into a much more gentle and kind sort of look.

"How now, why so sad, Edmund?" He asks, his eyes tinkling in that merry sort of way, although a flash of genuine concern is streaked through them.

Edmund cannot move, let alone speak, but his eyes do involuntarily flick a quick, reflexive glance towards the snow falling outside one of the windows along the eastern wall.

Surprisingly, the old man nods as though he understands perfectly, eyes twinkling kindly, "Well, that's no good. No, no good at all. No good to feel so awfully on well, on this, the _happiest_ day of the year!"

Edmund does not respond, at a loss for what to do or say. Father Christmas does not appear to mind as he drags his large drawstring sack away towards the four thrones. Edmund follows, cautious and mildly curious.

Father Christmas smiles warmly as he seats himself upon Peter's throne. Edmund swallows any objections he may have had at this. It _is_ Father Christmas, after all.

"You know Edmund," he begins as he nimbly pulls the drawstrings of his sack apart, "When I first met your brother and sisters I gave each of them a very special gift."

Edmund feels himself shrink in shame as he settles onto his own throne, which suddenly feels hard and foreign as if it knows he is unworthy of it. Edmund focuses on the old man's hands as he murmurs softly, "I know." It is almost a whisper.

Father Christmas nods again as he fishes out a few spectacularly packaged parcels from the sack, "Yes. Yes, I gave them each something special. And, you know, I've been thinking this past year that I never quite got around to giving _you_ something, Edmund, what with you being away and all at the time."

Edmund feels his chest tighten considerably as he marvels at the pure casual manner with which Father Christmas says this. How could he simply pass something so awful as being 'away'? Edmund cannot comprehend it.

"And so I was thinking," Father Christmas continues, either not having noticed Edmund's reaction to his words or, perhaps, ignoring it, "that perhaps this very year ought to be the year in which _you_ get _your_ gift."

Edmund's breath catches in his throat.

"Oh no," he stammers, "Oh no, sir. I couldn't – I _shouldn't_. I really…I really don't – don't deserve anything. It was…was my fault I wasn't there. I _really_ -"

Father Christmas ignores him as he continues, "Yes. Yes I decided it was high time for you to receive your gift."

Edmund attempts yet again, "No. No, I – Father Christmas you really don't understand. I could never accept anything like that. I – I _really_ don't deserve it, sir. I really don't."

Father Christmas shakes his head, white beard flinging slightly from side to side, "Oh no. No, Edmund you certainly deserve it. Of that I was most certain. The problem _I_ found is that you already have it."

"What – what do you mean, sir?"

"Yes. I said to myself, whilst I was thinking this through and I said 'but Edmund's already got his gift – Edmund already has what he needs.'"

"I'm sorry. But – but I don't understand? What sort of gift have I got?"

"Well you see Edmund, I had given your brother and sisters tools, the sorts of things one would need to pull through the upcoming battle and the years that would come afterwards. But I thought, 'Edmund already has what he needs.'"

Edmund again is very confused by this and stammers, "But what have I _got_, sir?"

Father Christmas's head snaps up sharply at this, as though he had just heard him for the first time, "Oh, _Edmund_, don't you know by now?"

Edmund sits very still, confusion spread across his features. He waits for Father Christmas to continue.

Father Christmas shakes his head, "The others may need weapons or a healing type of juice. No, no _you_ Edmund, you don't need anything of that sort. A sword would be a great tool; it would help you through many battles. A horn when you were to need help would be an equally great tool, but you do not need – or want – it. You would not _want_ to be saved."

Edmund thinks that this is quite true; he absolutely despises being fussed over. He'd just as quickly walk right onto the battle field bleeding horribly and half dead than be fussed over back in a tent.

"And a healing cordial?" Father Christmas continues, "No, certainly not for you. What you need, Edmund, is something much more powerful than any of those. You need them." Here he gestured around them, at each of the thrones to Edmund's left, "You need them to carry you through the remaining years. You need to know that they are there, that they are with you. And, most importantly, I think, _that they love you_. That is what _you_ need."

Edmund sinks deeper upon his throne, looking away from Father Christmas around the rest of the hall. He is right, Edmund knows he is. He doesn't really need any of this – in fact at times he'd rather he didn't have it at all. They – Peter and Susan and Lucy – really are all he needs he realizes. But...

"You see, Edmund? There _is_ no gift for you. Not because you are undeserving or because the others possess something you do not, but _because you already have it_. You have something few others share. You have a family, a loving and kind and generous family that will always be there, no matter what. That will always love you no matter what you do."

Edmund turns very slowly, meeting the old man's wise, aged eyes.

After a long pause, Edmund finally murmurs, "Thank you, sir. I – I had never thought of that."

Father Christmas nods, smiling, and gathers up the parcels he had unpacked from the sack and carries everything over to the grand tree in the centre of the hall. Edmund begins to leave as well, figuring he ought to be in bed – it _will_ be a big day tomorrow after all. As he picks up his fallen blanket from where it had fallen to the floor, however, he notices a golden wrapped parcel glinting off of the seat of Peter's throne.

With a quick glance backwards at the old man, who is neatly arranging the gifts under the tree, he hurries to the throne and gathers up the parcel. As he turns around however, he has just enough time to catch Father Christmas' smile and wink to him before he vanishes completely, sack and all.

Confused, Edmund switches his gaze to the package in his hands. It is addressed to him. Intrigued, Edmund slowly peels away the paper, knowing that his siblings will not mind if he opens just _one_ gift before morning.

Inside is an intricate gold box, carved with a beautiful pattern of snowflakes. Edmund carefully opens it, feeling every part of the smooth – yet somehow uneven surface – of the box. There, lying in a brilliant nest of silver, is a snow globe with the same pattern around its base as that of the box. Inside is an exact replica of the snow-covered Cair, right down to patterns around the columns. Edmund simply cannot help but to smile slightly at this. He is about to leave again, his heart feeling warmer that it has in quite a while, when he notices a gold card lying on the floor where he must have dropped it. The words inside, for some reason, cause Edmund to beam with pride. They are this:

"_Never forget your gift."_

And that is why, thousands of years later, when he returns to that great land, when he is lifting the great chest in the treasure chamber the first thing he sees is the golden box. He fingers it tenderly, remembering that night and the cold winter nights that followed. He remembers the awful ache he'd felt back in England on Christmas Eve and several other stormy winter nights when it hadn't been there, when he hadn't been able to hold it, to feel its comfort.

He takes it with him when he leaves.

And as he stands, years afterwards, watching the train turn round the bend far too fast, he fingers it in his pocket for the last time. Seconds later it is gone and in its place is the warmth of a soft golden mane.

* * *

_I hope you enjoyed it. Thanks for reading! Review are lovely, but not necessary! Merry Christmas again :)_

_Fig._


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